Kessie's Short Stories

The Aspen Tree with Marigolds

Originally published 12/9/2019

That photograph had been in my family for over five generations. In it, its only subject was a singular aspen tree in a field of marigolds. No other living creature -no sign of lost relatives or even a once loved pet- was in that photograph, just the aspen tree and the marigolds. For some time, I can remember that it was in its own frame. The frame had been bought at Dollar Tree; cheap, simple, and keeping a piece of glass between us and the photo itself.

In my childhood the photograph sat on the mantle of my grandparents' fireplace. It was the only thing allowed to sit there. I could understand not setting glassware down on the mantle, but greeting cards had been forbidden. My younger, more childish, brain had always found it odd to see a mantle without greeting cards sitting on top of it. It was only that photograph; a photograph of nothing but an aspen tree and marigolds.

My grandmother died before my grandfather. She hated that photograph on the mantle, and she made sure we all knew too. Nonna claimed that the photograph was something to be feared- its simple subject was a bad omen sent to curse our family and whoever owned it. According to her, the more you looked upon it, the more dark magic settled into your body. The dark magic would claim you, take over your will, and make you kill yourself in a fury that no one would be able to tame. When I was thirteen, my grandmother committed suicide- she hung herself. The note she left behind was deciphered by her psychologist, and he affirmed to us that she had been schizophrenic.

Poppie died soon after Nonna; he passed quietly while writing a short poem on how he met my grandmother. It was unfinished (he had died mid-sentence, it seemed) and it held no value to the rest of us, so it was discarded after the funeral. Before we threw it out, it was on display at his viewing. I looked more at his forgotten poem more than his empty body that night. He mentioned the photograph in his poem. Or, rather, the aspen tree and the marigolds. He compared them to loss and the grief he felt at Nonna's departing. Poppie died the moment he began to write on why the photograph belonged to our family. I wondered more about his final thoughts than mourning his body. My grandfather was hardly the wordsmith, so why start then instead of earlier?

After the dual funeral of my grandparents, the photograph had been entrusted to my parents. The frame broke as we tried to set it up in the hallway. In the back of my head, I could hear my grandmother tsk 'A bad omen' as my mother tried to find a broom to clean up the broken glass. A month after, my father broke a glass flower vase in an argument with my mother. I didn't see it happen -I had been had a friend's house at the time- but my brother informed me that it barely missed Mom's head. When I asked Rodney what happened after, he refused to say. No one ever talked about it after.

In the years that followed, the photograph was clipped to the side of our refrigerator. The clip itself was something Astra had made during summer camp; nothing more than a clothespin with a magnet strip attached to the back. She had painted the clothespin a bright yellow, and had created a construction paper sunflower for decoration- it was a clever way to hide the fact she used a clothespin. With Astra's sunflower-clothespin-magnet clip, the photograph appeared to have a small sun attached to it. It made it happier; less lonely.

I met my future husband when I was 20. By then, I was still living with my parents while Astra and Rodney had moved out. Xavier was handsome, charming, and he knew all the right words to make me give in to whatever he wanted. What he didn't want was to look at that photograph. I'd tease him for it, 'there's no one in that photo sweetie' and 'you don't have to look at it if you don't want to dear.' To this day, I'm still not sure how he managed to rant about the thing like it could talk to him- as if the photograph goaded him into staring at it until it gave him an existential crisis. Sometimes, he reminded me of Nonna and her dislike to the otherwise simple photograph.

And like Nonna, Xavier took his own life.

I can't talk about that.

It still hurts.

Five years later, and now none of us seem happy. My father had another argument with my mother- he shot her and then himself. Astra started to take drugs without anyone knowing and nearly overdosed at a friend's house. Rodney was accused of beating his wife and young daughter. They all seemed to blame that photograph on the fridge for their predicaments. I wasn't faring much better either, but I would never blame a mere object for it. But I still thought about it. I wondered where it came from, why we had it, and why none of us seemed to place the blame on ourselves.

I took up gardening in the past year or so. It helped to get my thoughts straight and to keep myself busy most of the time. Both of my siblings refused to come see me, not as long as that photograph of the aspen tree and marigolds remained on the fridge. On a rare occasion or two, I could swindle one of my coworkers to come by for a quick meal. After high school, there were not a lot of people that I could trust enough to call friends. It was only last week that I realized that I talked to my garden more than I did real people- I'd say it was embarrassing, but I think it only helped me gather my ideas more.

Marigolds were the only thing I could keep alive during the summer. Resilient things they were, but... lonely. I bought a small aspen tree in hopes that it would give some other interest to the garden. Who knows? Maybe in a few more years it would be large enough to draw some shade in- another place to bring people to when they decided to visit me. It didn't dawn on me on what I had done until far too late. But by then, I didn't think it would have mattered to anyone but myself.

For a long time, I held on to the old photograph as I walked outside. The perfect recreation was there in front of me. Perhaps this was only destiny and I had served my time. I placed the photograph at the bottom of the aspen tree I had planted, then doused the base of the tree with kerosene oil. A dry wind brushed against me as I tried to strike the match. Maybe it was encouragement- or an angry warning.

Once the match was lit, I carefully bent down to set the old photograph ablaze. From the kindling, the aspen tree didn't immediately set on fire, but the marigolds did. I didn't realize what position I had put myself in until far too late. But why would I have moved away? I was surrounded by the beauty of a lone aspen tree with marigolds.